


Sickness of Poacher's Pride.

by churchonthehill



Category: Fate/Grand Order, Fate/Zero, Fate/stay night & Related Fandoms, Fate/stay night (Visual Novel), Fate/stay night - All Media Types
Genre: Drabble, M/M, Non-Explicit Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-29
Updated: 2019-07-29
Packaged: 2020-07-25 01:29:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20024317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/churchonthehill/pseuds/churchonthehill
Summary: I shot an angel, dragged it to my basementStarved it 'til it died and I did not crySickness of poacher’s pride





	Sickness of Poacher's Pride.

**Author's Note:**

> (Don't let the ostentatious formatting fool you. This is just a quick, and I mean, REALLY quick, drabble I wrote. I plan on posting an actual kotokiri chapter fic at some point, but that day awaits to be seen.) 
> 
> This drabble has a lot of personal headcanons plugged into it. Either way, just to clear things up for anyone who's confused while reading this: Assassin Emiya is canonically a younger version of Kiritsugu. I write him to be about twenty. Secondly, I regard Heroic Spirit Assassin Emiya and the "real" Kiritsugu Emiya as two seperate entities (and surprise, surprise, so does Kirei). Thirdly, within the context of this drabble, Assassin is Kirei's servant. The time frame of this drabble takes place in an AU setting. Zero has long since passed by this point. Anyways, I hope you'll enjoy Kirei lamenting over his beloved nemesis as much as I do, and realizing that no one can ever quite fill his Kiritsugu-shaped hole, unlike, well, the real Kiritsugu.

His frustration is evident in the way his brows dip and features crease. When Assassin looks to him, he feels that fury wash over him like the igneous pumice of Mount Vesuvius. A familiar pain, one his Master wears infrequently but commonly enough, that he has learned to know it even in the stillness of the dark. Anxious fingers grip at the sides of his hood, allowing it to fall to his narrow shoulders and reveal a head of snowy hairs. 

“Kiritsugu.” 

And now he is stirred from his half-daze, his head raised from where it had heavily sunk between the dip of his collarbones. _Don’t call me that_ , he wants to cry out. But he is tired, and he is worn, and it is evident in his reply - a hoarse ‘what’, in place of vigor. 

“Remove your garments. Or would you rather I do it myself? We had come to an agreement, don’t you recall?” Baritone vocals are mocking in their delivery. And Assassin knows that the Fake Priest will not heed his threats. Afterall, it was he who had agreed to lie with the devil. 

A shimmer composed of gilt particles will encircle his form, devouring his battle-kissed vesture. Seen, is a final wink of metallic in the dark room’s fixtures, and all the fantastical gold is gone, and there is no more silver. Now, there is but a young body like eroding copper, far meeker beyond its carapace. A large hand encircles his wrist, drawing him towards the edge of the mattress. 

“Even now, you still smell of blood and war, Emiya Kiritsugu.” Kotomine jabs, making sure his comments are heard, under the inevitable conclusion that they may lose their way through the thick silence. 

Assassin remembers little of a life before this one. His memories, at best, are a jagged-mouthed crater. Reaching in, would leave him with more scars than the canvas of his form can house. Still, he is able to recognize how medieval the Priest is with his cross rest on the nightstand. Though his recollection is null, God was never an inviting presence throughout his journey, and thus, he shuns him.

He feels something warm and wet press to the nape of his neck. The Preacher has a strong grip around his waist, his arms coiling around Assassin’s body with the ferocity of a centipede trying to crush its next meal. It is difficult now, to tell if he wants to **fuck** him or force his innards to seep from his lips like collapsed sewage. Kirei kisses down his neck, and grabbing his Servant’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, will press their mouths together. To Kotomine’s dissatisfaction, they will never fit just right - like two opposite puzzle pieces. 

Thus, when Kirei takes Assassin, he does so with offence wetting the ridge of his brow bone. Like being served a supper that's been improperly prepared, a favorite food at a new restaurant that will never come to par with its predecessor. Kotomine feels like he’s been wrongfully cheated of something rightfully deserved. And though he may attempt to stuff Assassin - **this Kiritsugu** \- with pieces of himself, of anything and everything he may find admirable and necessary, the Spirit's voracious metabolism digests it, but keeps none of the consistency. 

Then, Kirei regards him as a doll made in facsimile of another. He is so lacking, and so empty beyond his stuffing, that the Priest fears getting past the cotton-clusters. _What then, will be left of him to usurp? ___

__“ **Perhaps I will kill you the next time we do this.** ” The priest announces with a grunt, releasing his orgasm beyond Assassin’s hot walls. “But despite your penchant to disappoint, you always manage to gift me with something quite exquisite...With this -” A clear tear rolls down the Assassin’s full cheek, and he watches with wide, watery, eyes, as Kirei manages to catch it on the tip of his thumb and brings it between his lips._ _

___**“When you are like this, you are almost like him. The real him.”**_ _ _

_The Kiritsugu I know._


End file.
